My gym is now open 24 hours a day.
Now if I’m going to be
completely honest, it’s been about 17,520 hours (or 730 days) since I’ve been
to said gym.
There are almost as many reasons why:
- I have a son with multiple chronic illnesses.
- I suffer chronic pain myself.
- I also have a teenage daughter with a demanding extra curricula activity schedule.
- Plus a husband who does shift work.
- And now 2 new furry family members (more on those at another time).
- I now work fulltime, with a daily commute of 3 hours round trip, up to 6 days a week.
- I am basically broke.
- I am permanently exhausted.
- Plus, up until now, the gym hours did not synchronise with my schedule of spare time (whatever that is).
Nonetheless this morning, on my 1 day off in 13, I
awoke at my regular hour of stupid o’clock, up before the birds, the dogs, and
the rest of my family.
In my enthusiasm (or perhaps delirium) I decided that it was
about time I went back to the gym, and today was the best time to do it.
So I dug out my gym bag, struggled into a pair of tights
(which were by definition and demeanour quite tight), borrowed my girlchild’s
water bottle and headed for the home of pain and torture, otherwise known as my
fitness club.
After finding out with some delight my membership card still
scanned and let me past the gates guarded by electronics, only to find no human
guardian waiting on the other side, I walked confidently into the workout room,
with hope in my heart that I could in fact make it through a work out.
I was the first one there, aside from the instructor, and
was relatively hopeful that it being so early on a Sunday morning, there would
be more people worshipping at the altar of their chosen religion, or still
asleep, and there would be few people to see my attempt at getting fit (because
it’s worked so well in the past for me as
evidenced here, and also here)
Unfortunately, by the time I checked in with the trainer and
discussed both my physical difficulties and desire to overcome them, the room
had filled, and there were any number of fit looking females taking up position
at the Barre. Here I should mention that
this particular class I was venturing into was somewhat scarily entitled Barre
Attack, and involved the trainer attacking our muscles with the use of a good
old fashioned ballet barre.
She said it was best for me to grab a spot at the back of the room so I could see her in the reflection while also keeping an eye on myself, to check I was doing it right. Now I don’t like looking at myself in a mirror at the best of times, let alone hot and sweaty and ridiculously uncoordinated both physically and fashion-wise (yes, I did indeed notice after looking at my reflection that my ensemble was nowhere near as on-trend as the others in the room).
It was even worse when the trainer declared it was a barefoot class, and I was aware as soon as I took my shoes off, of just how long I’ve left my toenail polish on (it was like a reverse French pedi just so you know, with the tips of my toes showing a mere shadow of colour, with the rest of my nail the shade of white only my bare skin seems to bear).
At this point I also realised the error of my ways leaving my ankle brace at home when she declared it was ‘leg day’ and the majority of the workout would be working on our lower extremities. With bonus ball work. What joy.
She said it was best for me to grab a spot at the back of the room so I could see her in the reflection while also keeping an eye on myself, to check I was doing it right. Now I don’t like looking at myself in a mirror at the best of times, let alone hot and sweaty and ridiculously uncoordinated both physically and fashion-wise (yes, I did indeed notice after looking at my reflection that my ensemble was nowhere near as on-trend as the others in the room).
It was even worse when the trainer declared it was a barefoot class, and I was aware as soon as I took my shoes off, of just how long I’ve left my toenail polish on (it was like a reverse French pedi just so you know, with the tips of my toes showing a mere shadow of colour, with the rest of my nail the shade of white only my bare skin seems to bear).
At this point I also realised the error of my ways leaving my ankle brace at home when she declared it was ‘leg day’ and the majority of the workout would be working on our lower extremities. With bonus ball work. What joy.
And so it begins...
I was almost over my shock of confronting myself in the
mirror in such a brightly lit room when she asked if we had warmed up enough to
put the fans on, “Yes” I either gasped or rasped, with both my breath and my
voice already giving up the ghost. I
then noticed in my haste to be as close to the door as possible in order to
make a hasty escape if necessary, I was nowhere near a fan … leaving me looking
longingly at the breeze blowing straight over my head, and onto every other
person in the room except me.
Once we’d warmed up (darn near overheated in my case) she
instructed us to put our left side to the Barre. I was happy with this
instruction as it meant I was at the back of the row and able to watch the
others carry out the movements, as I still had no clue about the full range of techniques
we were attacking at the barre. Halfway
through the pliés
my legs were pleading to stop the torture, and it was with all the grace of a
dying swan (literally not classically speaking) I tried to keep up with the
class to my front.
When she then turned us all around to face the opposite side
I realised the entire class was now facing my backside, and my wobbly attempts
at the kick-and-curtsey
combo were also in full view. While the instructor reminded us that the barre was there for support if needed, and most of the class were gracefully holding their arms in beautiful imitations of First and Fifth positions whilst hoisting the ball above their heads, I was managing a mangled Third with extreme barre-o-metric pressure as I hung onto it for dear life for fear of falling over on my unsteady feet. Thankfully I
could hear no laughter over the sound of my own ragged breathing. I couldn't believe it when she said it was good to see us still smiling, while seemingly looking straight at me - clearly she mistook my grimace for a grin.
After a few more minutes of my inadequate inelegance, the
trainer said it was time to go to the floor. “Sweet relief, it’s cool down time”
thought both my legs and I in agreement, until she decided there was more
torture to endure. I swear if my legs
weren’t shaking so much I would’ve burst the ball I was gripping the thing so
tight in my state of tension, as it was it was so sweaty by this stage it’s a miracle
the thing didn’t squeeze out and shoot across the room.
I can’t even recall what went on for the remainder of the
class itself, as I fear I had an out-of-body experience; anything to not
experience the pain my body was in.
At least I wasn’t alone, and the others who had put in even
harder yards than I had, given their experience and fitness level, appeared to
be equally exhausted.
It wasn’t until a random cockroach crawled out from behind
the mirror and scuttled across the floor (thankfully nowhere near me, I’ve had my share of those creepy crawly critters thankyou)
that we all found our energy reserve and leaped up away from the thing; the
instructor included, so she concluded the class.
I had survived my return to the gym.
I wasn’t barred from the Barre!
I even resisted to urge to attack some sugar on my way home.
And if my legs ever forgive me, I might even make it back
for an encore performance next weekend.
Jx
©22 January 2017
